


The Tale Of Young Dust

by SecondStarfall (beantiger)



Series: The Second Starfall Stories [53]
Category: Original Work
Genre: (Eugenics SUCK), 1800s Tech, Communication Failure, Eugenics, F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Familiars, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Lesbian Character, Magic, No Lesbians Die, Novelette, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, POV First Person, Parent Death, Siblings, Slow Burn, Talking Animals, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beantiger/pseuds/SecondStarfall
Summary: Although I am surprised you want anything from me. I am not special. Just a talking bearcat like any other, and certainly not an orator.***A familiar helps his witches reconnect.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: The Second Starfall Stories [53]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582975
Kudos: 3





	1. IN WHICH A BEARCAT ATTEMPTS TO KEEP HIMSELF AWAKE

**Author's Note:**

> **SUGGESTED REREADING:** Any of the Taaron and Kirra stories, which start with ["An Eternal Friend In The Mists"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372311). This is, so far, the latest in the early T&K timeline.
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨

If you _insist,_ I’ll discuss my thoughts as a witch’s familiar. But I’m taking it on good faith that you’ll leave me to my reading afterward. Yes?

Thank you. Although I'm surprised you want anything from me. I am not special. Just a talking bearcat like any other, and certainly not an orator. My words on Taaron and Kirra will far from excite you. And this is no tell-all. There isn’t much I can say that you couldn’t ask them yourself, so mosey off if you think to...

Ah, hand me my kerchief, if you please? My spectacles get so dusty, by the stars.

***

Let me think.

I was born in the Brightest Sovereignty’s quiet wet forests, where I would eventually meet my witches. I recall, as a newborn, trekking under pines and through them alongside my mother. We never quite settled, moving northward. Anxiety seemed to cloak us like mist at every turn—

Well, allow me to back up just a notch.

If you look at naturalists’ journals from the years my witches were young—this was decades ago now...if you look at those journals, you’ll find that the observant had picked up on the pattern already. Beasts migrating from the Kingdom of Althussant in droves, slowly, abnormally. One generation inching further than the next. In those days, feathered things and furred things fled from their ancestral homes, my own mother and I included among this number.

(I know: you’re here about my days with Taaron and Kirra. This is relevant, I assure you.)

My mother couldn’t talk, nor comprehend my incoherent chattering in turn. Yet even as a cub I sensed, in her eyes and in her crooked shuffles and in the bristling of her fur, that we traveled to escape some incredible and deadly fate in Althussant. I'm certain she wanted me to continue moving after I had grown into adulthood. 

Every mother has such hopes for her children. The story of love is an old, pervasive one.

Good grief, you’re writing quick. Am I so interesting?

***

Eh. What was I—

Cubhood, yes. In her silent animal panic, my mother had brought us to the vast True Witchwood surrounding the Brightest Manor that spring. And, chronicler—there I found my witches. There, too, my mother died.

Imagine, if you can, her paws’ stillness. Her stiff ribs. It was a chilly Sovereign morning, and I had awoken to her lifeless next to me in the yew where we’d nested. 

I won’t shed tears for you. I suppose you’ve spoken to hundreds, if not thousands, of creatures who have experienced death firsthand. It is the flip-side of love; it is the curse of the living, to have grief nipping at your dew-claws.

Before I could parse what had happened, her body collapsed through the bough to the underbrush. Then a shadow poured out over her, and a rotten avian shriek echoed in my bones, and a carriage-sized vulture emerged from the gloom below me.

I had never seen anything so enormous. It nosed my mother along in the dirt, and then it…it—

Well—a public library is no place for such details. I only mention this to keep myself awake.

***

Now we get to the part you so desire: the vulture and Taaron and Kirra.

Not once did it fly or flutter, that bird. I’m not sure it could. It walked on four limbs instead. Its front wings, bent against the ground like forepaws, scrabbled along in the detritus and dirt. A standard horror thinking back on it, really, though at the time...ah.

As I huddled deep within the needles, curled against the yew’s trunk, I felt terror and...nothing more, chronicler. Not grief, not rage, not even self-preservation. The vulture beneath me had its meal, and between my heart’s war-drum thumping I tried to determine what had happened. What _would_ happen.

That moment must have lasted just a few seconds, but—by the stars—it may as well have been years. You know, I wonder if this...all of this...is a waking dream sometimes. My own life, my own decades as a familiar. I wonder if I’m still squatting in a tree, a cub waiting for answers from the aether on a damp Sovereign morning...

My mother. The vulture. Taaron. Kirra. Yes. 

A cry barked out from deeper within the forest, and a salty-sweet scent pricked at my nose. _Human,_ I thought, daring to peer down. Two girls, mere cubs themselves, began shouting at the monstrous carrion-eater from a few feet away. It towered over them, but the bravery in their eyes calmed me.

Then, like a chastised child, the vulture swung its head around and shimmied back into the cover of the trees, its gait unnatural, its body hunched.

Chronicler. They were my witches, those girls who saved my mother’s bones. I couldn’t describe them to you in a way that would befit them, or interest you, or stray too far from the saccharine. To discuss it is to discuss love—of great pleasure for the speaker, not so much for the audience. 

We all know love, we all know death, we all know life.

It goes on, it goes on.

Now, give me my book back. That’s all I have to say.

***

Ah, damn you. No, it isn’t.

They were good. Even back in those old days. Believe me, though you’ll find a thousand sources that say otherwise.

They murmured while hovering over my mother. Disappointment and determination lined their lips. Then, with awkward youthful energy, they built a little cairn around my mother’s desecrated body. Rolling little river stones around and on top of her, you know. I watched from the yew and in my mind I said my goodbyes, and morning blossomed into afternoon as Taaron and Kirra labored.

***

You want to know, then, what they were like as children. _Really_ like. Fine. But I can’t guarantee you’ll find these memories useful.

Now. Let me close my eyes for a moment.

I remember Taaron wore patched overalls. Her shirt collar lie neatly against her neck. She smelled like smoke and metal and fear, too. I remember her hair’s pale violet sheen and the boyishness of her voice. I remember Kirra leaned over to kiss her once, twice, three times, and the blush that blossomed along Taaron’s cheeks.

And, ah, my darling Kirra, in her chemisette, in her delicate shirtwaist all covered in dirt and mud. She sang the whole time they built the cairn, though the sound was as indecipherable to me as birdcalls. I remember she only stopped singing to fix her greyish braid and to check on a leather bag she had dropped not far from where they stood. Taaron smelled like earth but Kirra like air and water and magic, and she never once dropped her smile. Even as they finished their grim job, that smile remained.

Sufficient enough for you, chronicler? Isn’t that just _fascinating?_ As if a thousand other familiars don’t have a witch they adore.

Ha.

***

Oh?

I don’t know how or why my mother died, chronicler.

She delivered me to my girls, though.

***

So. The cairn was done, a knee-high monument—well, knee-high to you—of shale and gneiss and petrified wood. Kirra placed a lily on its peak.

That convinced me.

Stiffening, I crawled down from the yew and stood up at its trunk. The Sovereign language swam into me—I couldn't explain to you how or why, only that, listening to these girls, their words had entered my mind, and their context, too. You’ve spoken to a load of talking animals. I am sure you understand.

Kirra murmured: “I’ve never seen a bearcat here, dearest. I didn’t think they lived this far west. There’d be trappers everywhere if so. And we’d smell them all the time, oh—it’s like roasted corn or—something.” She glanced at the cairn. “Poor little one.”

Taaron replied: “We should note that. Like all those little orange salamanders crawling down the stream together last week? Or the serows they saw on the Killok farm.”

I shuffled closer. Kirra picked up her bag and held it close. “Meat isn’t supposed to be out this far without Kalkora. Mother forbade it. I wonder if he knows anything—”

She and Taaron turned to me.

My gaze met Kirra’s own. I felt as though I’d woken from a long rest to discover flowers had bloomed around me overnight. 

Then I looked at Taaron. A light, invisible caress fell over me like a ray of warmth on the scalp.

Ah, they were good. I’m telling you. Despite all that has happened.

***

I didn’t tumble into their arms and weep, thank you very much. Though a gallon of happiness had washed over me—or so it seemed—it was so physical, so shocking—I only watched them, awed. They were so much bigger than me.

Kirra held out her hand. So did Taaron. I reached up to take them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** Good grief I've been wanting to introduce Dust FOREVER. He's a binturong, _Arctictis binturong_ , also known as a bearcat. They're tropical rainforest critters in our world, but I plopped them into temperate ones in SecStar.
> 
> If you're wondering where he's been in other stories, this is actually the latest story so far in Taaron and Kirra's adolescence/young adulthood—they're about 18, 19 here. Still cubs through a bearcat's eyes. (Also: I promise I'll rearrange the Taaron and Kirra stories chronologically before the new year. They bounce around a LOT.) 
> 
> If you're wondering where he's been in stories that mention them as adults—we'll get there. Y'all remember when I could pump out multiple stories per week? What a time.
> 
> BTW: we have our own domain now! The wiki and timeline are both at secondstarfall.com, and all the links have been updated across every story. Now I don't have to update 400 Google Docs. Eugh.


	2. IN WHICH A BEARCAT DOES THE BARE MINIMUM

I sigh, chronicler, because I don’t like your insinuation. Witches can’t share familiars? Oh _really?_ Just because you and I haven’t heard of such a thing—

The arrogance, by the stars.

***

Look: I’ll be honest. I do believe the gods—or the universe, or fate, whoever’s running this mess—meant me for the witch-heir Kirra Lattar only. And she for myself, of course. Taaron knows this. I don’t believe she has ever minded. Our tether is more subtle, but undeniable. Like the low of a church bell from down the road.

***

In fact:

That day, when Kirra held me in the Witchwood for the first time, Taaron reeled back as if struck. Anxiety boiled over in her heart—I could sense it, chronicler, as easily as I could breathe. The tether, see. Her emotions stood lighter on my mind than they would have if they were Kirra’s, but they stood there nonetheless.

From Kirra’s arms I reached out to Taaron, straining.

Kirra whispered, “Do you love her like you love me, little one?”

I said something like, “Almost.”

This seemed to satisfy her. She drew Taaron close—slipping a hand behind Taaron’s back—and there we were, cuddled up.

Kirra, who had grown up at the Brightest Manor with her mothers the witch queens, knew what to expect of our bond. For Taaron, who lived in dumpy Kar Tor with a silversmith, the experience was new indeed. Your first days with your familiar are often as terrifying as they are wonderful—I need not get into details, because there’s plenty of writing on _that._ Nonetheless, Taaron Miphariin had me, and she had Kirra.

A pretty picture. Do you see my eyes rolling?

***

In whispers my girls decided to camp out for the evening, and I agreed. My body trembled with joy and grief. Neither of them wanted to part with me so quickly, nor I with them. If they’d made me choose, I’d have cried in exhaustion.

Now: you don’t quite _camp out_ in the True Witchwood overnight, lest you find yourself impaled on the bad end of a unicorn at four in the morning. But Taaron and Kirra knew that forest as well as they knew each other’s bodies. They had a safe, cozy cavern at its north end—nothing more than a little limestone shelter on a hillside, big enough for a few humans to crouch in and to sleep in. 

There they kept quilts and kindling and canned beans and such, for when they wanted to spend a night in each other’s company. And there we went—Kirra flying us as mist.

(By the way: an interesting sensation, that. Becoming a cloud of mist. That’s a real story for you, for another day.)

The cavern was dry and smelled deeply like them both. A relief like you wouldn’t believe, chronicler. I dozed off in a corner while Kirra, stoking a fire, told me about the books she wanted to write. Romances and ghost stories, based on everything she and Taaron had seen in the Witchwood. And as for Taaron—she paged through a worn journal from Kirra’s bag.

She shifted against me in the way one does when they can’t focus, and finally sighed, and said: “Well, this is the best thing that’s happened in the last six months, anyway. Can’t get a lead on any of the migrating animals, not even a little bit, but at least…” Taaron stroked my head. “We have Dusty here. Look at his fur all tipped in grey.”

“Dust!” Kirra replied. I opened one eye. The flamelight licked at her cheeks. “That’s a good name.”

And so.

***

Ah. Yes, the migrating animals.

At that point my witches had been keeping records of Witchwood wildlife for almost half a decade—observation numbers, behavior patterns, breeding seasons. I don’t understand the practice, but it seemed to bring them a certain peace. 

When deer and bears fled in terror, when salmon drowned under rocks without cause, when serows and mountain goats crept into the local farmland...

When my mother and I showed up, yes, Taaron and Kirra noticed. Of course they did. Wouldn’t you notice a bruise on your lover’s knee? Even if you hadn’t the faintest clue how she got it.

***

Stars emerged outside the cavern. Taaron covered the opening with an old piece of canvas, and we shared a mound of quilts around the fire, us three. I recall Kirra trying to tell Taaron about familiars, about our history and purpose.

Taaron seemed distant. She said, after a moment: “Wait—Kirra. How is it we’ve both found Dust? Together?”

And Kirra replied: “Well, I’ve never heard of two witches with one familiar, but—”

“Maybe it’s related to the migrations,” Taaron mused. She picked at the buttons on her overalls. Slow at first, and then obsessively. “I know that seems...preposterous, unrelated to anything we’ve seen, but I just feel it. There are no bearcats in the area, after all.”

They had a long, long conversation then, chronicler, in the whispers of old lovers. Despite Kirra’s attempts to convince Taaron that my presence—if unusual—was a good sign, Taaron maintained something incredible was about to happen. That was the way she put it, I remember: _something incredible, and we’re blind to it._

If only she’d known.

Kirra rubbed her eyes. (She knew when she had lost the battle against Taaron’s logic, or lack thereof.) With a concerned sigh, she pulled the blankets tighter around us and nestled into Taaron’s shoulder.

My whiskers twitched with the raw unease, Taaron’s unease, congealing in the air like heat. I thought, sleepily: _She’s nervous, always nervous._ I thought, less sleepily: _Most of the time, Kirra can help her._ I thought, now awake: _Today it has to be me._

I crawled over to Kirra’s satchel, in which there were pebbles that Taaron had collected during the day. (She was a rock-throwing, rock-skipping cub; you know the type.) When I teetered back to them, I held a single piece of gneiss out in my paw.

“You two,” I said, pointing at the black flecks inside the grey. “Taaron. Kirra. One in the other.” 

Taaron and Kirra both examined the rock. Then Taaron said: “Oh.” She curled her fist around the gneiss and held it against her forehead, taking deep breaths. Like steam, the nervousness seemed to dissipate off her body. “I knew it. I _knew_ it. I was being an idiot. As always. That makes sense. Thank you, Dust. You’re a good familiar.”

Kirra murmured: “You’re no idiot, silly.”

“I am when I start panicking like a shot deer…”

I bristled with pride. Thus I completed my first and most important task as a familiar: comforting my witch. Woo-hoo and huzzah—I did the bare minimum at three months old.

***

What did I mean with the gneiss?

Ah, right. You’re human, too, chronicler, even behind that mask. And humans take a while to understand.

Well—

To discuss a witch’s syntax outside of her presence—generally a _faux pas,_ as they say in Althussant. Though everyone on the continent knows what Taaron Miphariin can do by now.

Except you, apparently. Varya must be very far away indeed.

Taaron, ah—she can pour herself inside people like a flood. She can pour herself inside, and take a good hard look at your soul, your mind, your body. She can’t see everything. But anything laid out and unprotected. Anything that isn’t hidden inside half a lifetime of trauma and memory and pain.

***

You still don’t ken? For the love of...

Listen to me, chronicler. Back then, Taaron was only nineteen, and still experimenting with her power at Kirra’s advising. She still followed the Old Law. Most days, she peered inside hurt animals and toddlers, looking at fractures and tumors to help folks in Kar Tor. Sometimes, though—

I’m trying to be delicate with this.

My Kirra had no health problems in her youth, other than a crooked nose from a break that had never quite healed, and spells of vertigo. Yet Taaron had _dived,_ as she called it, into Kirra. And Kirra allowed it. Asked for it, even. Multiple times.

Taaron can wander inside your essence. Taaron can take certain things from you, we all know that, yes, yes. However, she can also leave things by accident. Bits of herself, you see? Black inside grey…

They’d pushed up against my thoughts not like two witches, but one.

***

You know. I maybe, ah, should not have told you all that.

Let’s change the subject, if you’re so enthralled with my voice.

***

After we’d gone to sleep—in the cavern, recall—I dreamed of a star falling to earth, and in the dream I reached out to Taaron and Kirra both but couldn’t find them. Witches never dream, you know. So I awoke teary-eyed, and, because she was closest, flicked Taaron with my tail under the quilt.

I said: “Starfall.” Then when she blinked at me, now awake and uncomprehending, I said again: “Starfall.”

She picked me up and set me on her chest, staring. 

“What do you know about Second Starfall?” she asked, eyes wide.

I didn’t know anything, except I wanted love; I nuzzled under her chin, and she hugged me close. And—by the stars, chronicler, if you’d fallen asleep to the gentle current of her breathing, you’d never accuse her of all they claim she’s done since.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** This story has a definite beginning and end, though I don't know how long it'll take for me to get there. I'm experimenting with a new "serial" style for these longer pieces. So: unknown chapter count.
> 
> If you notice any discrepancies that don't seem like a natural part of the narrative, they will be corrected when the story's done or, like, in the middle of the night when I can't sleep, depending.


	3. IN WHICH A BEARCAT SEES WITH HINDSIGHT

You can imagine that when I awoke the next morning and couldn’t find Taaron and Kirra, panic and grief washed over me. As a cub, wallowing in my witches’ presences was the most basic form of joy imaginable. Their personalities coated them like a pleasant scent. Even sitting with their flaws, it was always a comfort to have them nearby. It was…

Ugh. I’m boring myself.

Thankfully, the pair stood outside not far from the cavern, their hair and clothes disheveled with sleep, facing nothingness. Or what looked to me like nothingness.

Kirra said something like, “Ironheart—you’re a familiar. What if someone split you and Mama up, when you first found her? And there’s two of us and Dust now—”

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴀ sᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ᴠɪsɪᴛᴏʀ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴋᴀᴀᴍɪɴ. ᴀ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ sɪsᴛᴇʀ ʀɪʟᴋᴀ’s—ᴀ ᴅɪᴘʟᴏᴍᴀᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜsᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ, said a small, commanding voice. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ғᴏʀ ᴅᴇʙᴀᴛᴇ, sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ.

Taaron rubbed something into the dirt with her heel, her hands clasped behind her. She looked down at me like she wanted to cry when I approached, so I pushed myself against her leg.

ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏ ᴄɪᴠɪʟɪᴀɴs, added the voice, which seemed to point in Taaron’s direction.

I squinted into the dawn. A moth fluttered against the Witchwood pines, a satin moth no bigger than a coin, its wings edged in white and silver. 

Recall that Taaron and Kirra meant to figure out, overnight, how they’d split their time with me, at least until our bond had solidified? Well, chronicler: they didn’t. I had been too tired to ask about it—as any cub would be in the situation, I think. I figured the _grown-ups_ had it handled. Except that the grown-ups, in this case, were two nineteen-year-old witches, neither of whom had made very many hard decisions in their lives.

I’d already gathered that Taaron and Kirra lived many miles apart. Shared custody, at least for a time, would be a necessity. And if I wanted to keep them together, I’d have to speak my mind.

“Maybe…” I started to say, and probably sounded like a moron.

The moth Ironheart commanded: ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴋɪʀʀᴀ. ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜsᴛ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴏʀ ᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ. ɪɴsᴜʙᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ…

Etcetera, etcetera. He must have rambled on, but I ignored him to listen to my witches.

“Well, er—whenever this visitor leaves you can come back to Kar Tor with Dust. It won’t be long, right? Probably not more than a few days?” Taaron said. She pressed her nose to Kirra’s cheek, and I pressed harder against Taaron. “I forget that you’re a sort-of princess sometimes.”

“I’m not,” Kirra whined, in a small voice.

Suddenly, Taaron disappeared into the cavern. Before I could try to clamber after her, she returned with her journal—the one she’d been flipping through the night previous, apprehensive. She got on her knees and put it directly into my paws. It was three-fourths of my body size, and the leather covers were falling apart, but I clutched it tight to my chest. It smelled like her.

“Why don’t you keep that for now?” she replied, and awkwardly winked one teary eye, like someone trying to make fun at a funeral. “We can talk more about it later, Dust.”

There’s much you could say about Taaron, but she always kept her promises.

***

Into the pines we soared, myself and Kirra and Ironheart, who was her younger mother’s familiar.

Kirra said: _Please excuse him, little Dust. He’s a veteran of the Moth Conflict._

ᴇxᴄᴜsᴇ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ. ʟᴇᴀʀɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴊᴜsᴛ ғɪɴᴇ.

Even as we dispersed into droplets of water, we could still speak by the power of Kirra’s syntax. Though it was difficult for me, I’ll admit, as if I was trying to talk while submerged in a river. I kept trying to form my mouth around the word _Taaron,_ and managed only a squeak. 

By all the stars, by all the gods, how my guts felt knotted up inside! I wanted, so badly, to mourn Taaron’s loss. I knew she was alive and well on one hand, and that I would see her soon. But, chronicler—when you’re so young, a week or so might as well take a lifetime, yes?

Kirra must have heard me, or felt my sadness, because she said: _I know. I know. But even if we could bring her...I don’t think I would have. All my sisters live at the Manor—_

ᴜɴʀᴜʟʏ. ᴜɴᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟɪɴᴇᴅ.

_—all eleven of them, and I’m the youngest. It’s not like the Witchwood. It’s...loud. I’ll get you through this, my Dust. I’m sorry._

_She was scared,_ I managed to say. _Taaron._

ɴᴏᴛ sᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ, sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ. ᴀɴxɪᴏᴜs. ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴍᴇʟʟ ɪᴛ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ.

Beneath us, under the fog, my mother’s cairn passed by in a wet whirl. I barely registered that a human woman—one just out of cubhood—stood nearby examining it. Instead, I only thought about Taaron, and how badly I wanted to help her through her fear. The urge overwrote any semblance of focus. I imagined if my mother could understand the situation, she would want me to _do_ something.

Ridiculous, yes. I’m sure you had similar ideas as a cub.

Kirra piped in again: _Yes...yes. Not scared but anxious. There is a difference. I want to be a writer, Dust, and I’ve learned that you must always use the right word—_

ғᴇᴀʀ ɪs ғᴏʀ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ sᴇᴇ. ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ, ɴᴏᴡ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ’s ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ.

 _Um, thank you, Ironheart. She’s afraid for—anxious for—this thing, Second Starfall._ I remember Kirra telling me that it was an old tale from another country, and nothing to worry over, and that we had to love Taaron through her feelings. I remember she mentioned that Taaron couldn’t help herself, because the Old Laws were strong in her, and grew stronger everyday.

But I could only think about Second Starfall. 

I wanted to do more than just _love_ Taaron. In my bones I knew love was about taking action. I knew it instinctively. As did my mother. Hadn’t she acted for me and me alone?

***

By the way. Remember that woman by the cairn: she will reappear later, even if I took little notice of her at the time. All of life exists in hindsight. I’m certain you know that better than most, chronicler.

***

We arrived at the Manor and reconstituted on the parterre pathway, and—

Really? Fine.

You’ve seen daguerreotypes of the Brightest Manor, yes? That thirteen-spired, domed, gargantuan dwelling stretched dramatically over a few dozen acres. Milk-white slate and limestone on the exterior, gilded in silver. A wide parterre out front and fencing beyond that, silver again, gleaming even in the Sovereign fog. The Lattar moth emblem everywhere, carved into columns and on cartouches and even blooming in patterns among the parterre lilies...

So very, very impressive. And also quiet, and desolate, despite all the witches living within.

It awed me as a cub the first day I saw it, admittedly, but only because of my inexperience. The Manor is like any other castle, any other manse: a place for rich and important folk, and nothing more. Still, at the time, I had the sense it rarely saw visitors. I was correct on that one. I thought, in my childlike way: _Something big is going to happen._ I was correct on that one, too. Sadly.

I thought you wanted to know about familiars, not witch-houses.

***

As we settled, Ironheart immediately issued his command: ʀᴇᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ. sᴇɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀʀᴄᴀᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪʙʀᴀʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀs. ᴍᴀɴᴏʀ, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀʀᴄᴀᴛ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴀᴄᴄᴇss.

“Ironheart,” Kirra pleaded. “We’ve just met. You must understand.”

Behind Ironheart stood a granite statue of a gryphon, probably ten or so feet high, holding a spear in one paw and a mirror in the other. It stirred, setting the mirror down from its pedestal to a place on the ground near my level. Bits of rock clattered to the pavement.

Did I mention that the Brightest Manor is alive? It’s alive. 

Yet because Kirra wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t, either. I crawled down from Kirra’s arms—still clutching Taaron’s journal for comfort—and toddled toward the statue, blinking. The gryphon’s mirror held not my reflection, but a whole room within. A long hall of books and familiars and warm light. 

I can glean what I need from Kirra’s mind if I so choose—and Taaron’s, to a lesser extent. Information. Cultural norms. Etcetera. Familiars can do that, you understand? I checked within Kirra to see what one did at a library, and I found feelings of safety and joy, and the good kind of power—the kind that supports those in need.

 _Something to help Taaron is there,_ I thought. The image of my mother, too, arose within me. Her animal eyes seemed expectant. 

Still, wandering through this mirror without either of my witches...well, that was unthinkable.

ᴋᴀᴀᴍɪɴᴀɴs ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇs ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴜs ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ, sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ, the moth explained.

“Ironheart,” Kirra repeated, an unusually hard edge to her voice. 

“Not going,” I said. “Without Kirra.”

The moth growled a menacing little shriek. ᴛʜɪs ɢᴜᴇsᴛ ɪs ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ɪᴍᴘʀᴇss. ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ sɪɢʜᴛ, ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴍɪsᴛᴇʀ ᴘʜᴀᴀʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇs ʜɪs ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴏғ ᴜs. ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ? sʜᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs?

Kirra stiffened. Like all heirs, she had her share of petulance, this I will admit. But that also meant she cared little what others thought of her, including her own family. She took a deep, dramatic breath, then rushed at the mirror, grabbing me under the arms in the process.

I had a sense of dislocation, and...poof, pow, Manor magic: there we were, in the library, on its westernmost side.

It’s one way to handle things.

***

The scent of old paper and a half dozen different animals wafted in the air, but I couldn’t see any other creatures immediately. Only yards of shelves and tomes and half-lit candles, and a vaulted ceiling that seemed higher than any creature could ever reach. Silence held much of the room, with the exception of a few distant, playful growls.

Something cracked behind me. I turned. Upon the library wall hung a decorative mirror like the gryphon’s outside, except its glass had broken. Kirra stood next to it.

“Oh,” Kirra said, her hand on her mouth. “I shouldn’t have done that, I suppose. I don’t think the Manor attuned that portal for something as big as me.” She picked up the single fallen shard from the carpet and looked at the ceiling. “I hope that didn’t hurt too much, Brightest—oh, I will get an earful for that at some point, I imagine. But, Dust, I’d rather us remain here, together. Ironheart had to understand. It’s always hard enough to leave Taaron behind...”

She pushed the shard back into the mirror. I had the feeling she could be thoughtless, and even self-centered, but never cruel. I'd learn that was the way of many in the Lattar family.

“Taaron,” I replied, tugging on her skirt. “Second Starfall. Are there books?”

“Books on…? Oh! A brilliant idea, my little Dust. Come, come, let me show you what we have on the Old Law and all: I’ll tell you about how Taaron feels, and that’ll make it less scary for you.” Kirra’s brows furrowed with sadness. “And for me.”

***

Taaron Miphariin was a bundle of hot nerves, no doubt. Was and is. But her dread over this Second Starfall…

Somehow, even then, I knew it was justified. 

Or maybe that’s just hindsight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** Finally, the plot. A familiar face and a not-so-familiar face will arrive soon!
> 
> If Ironheart's dialogue looks terrible on your screen/in your browser, he's meant to talk in small caps, like Death from the _Discworld_ series.


	4. IN WHICH A BEARCAT LEARNS THE OLD LAW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where the eugenics stuff starts, y'all. If that triggers you (and I don't blame you), please take care of yourself.

Chronicler, I’ll tell you what my Kirra told me, holding me in her lap with _Theses on the Book of the Dead_ in front of us both.

Ahem—

Witches don’t follow the Old Law. The Old Law follows _them._ It is alive and it exists inside every witch—even those in faraway lands who have never heard of witchcraft at all. 

It’s like a grandmother who has lived in a warzone all her life: quiet and persistent. The Old Law doesn’t influence a witch, but it does turn their conscience towards good deeds. No witch thinks to disobey it, not for long. Who would disobey their grandmother?

***

Yes, that’s what Taaron feared. The Old Law, grandmother to all witches—and how it might hurt her if she didn’t stop Second Starfall.

An unwise concern, really. We all get hurt in the end.

***

We’d curled up on a leather armchair in the Manor library, myself and Kirra. The book we read together—bits and pieces, anyway—was entitled _Theses on the Book of the Dead._ A thousand essays on the Old Law from witches and non-witches alike. It had no editor. It smelled old, and a little like blood, too.

I nudged Kirra’s energy to discover this crotchety Old Law for myself. Of course, there were almost a dozen familiars in the library breaking my concentration: a rotund tabby cat patrolling the shelf-tops, two young wolves play-fighting up and down the aisles, a bear snoring in an empty, sooty fireplace. I couldn’t find much within Kirra except myself and Taaron.

Once more I tried, prodding Kirra’s mind in the same way I had done to find out about libraries. In the end, nothing nudged back. Instead I felt the vague outline of an outside force in Kirra’s soul. 

“Bad,” I said. Someone’s toad familiar croaked from the other side of the hall.

Long story short, the Old Law wasn’t like a grandmother to me. More like a cyst. An opinion I still hold, mind you. But though the Old Law forced itself upon witches in the most abominably intrusive way possible, it also made them into heroes. Whether they wanted it or not.

I recall thinking something like, _Poor Taaron._

Kirra explained: “Starfall is this parable from Kaamin out west. A star will crash to earth, the Kaaminans say. To them, it’s already happened and will happen again. No one’s ever heard of such a thing, though, not outside those stories. It's all symbolism—a metaphor. You'll understand when you're older, Dust. But even if it's not a _real_ starfall, Taaron believes it. I don’t think the Old Law wants this from her—I think she’s misunderstanding it all...”

I grabbed Taaron’s notebook from the side table and held it up.

“Oh, my Dust. That’s not proof,” Kirra said with a sigh, as if she’d repeated herself a thousand times. She buried her nose into my head. “All the animals showing up, you showing up—I’m sure it’s nothing to do with us, but Taaron loses sleep over it. My poor _kolti._ Seeing patterns where there aren’t any. She’ll make herself sick—”

At that point, an unfamiliar voice chimed in: “Did you know in Kaamin they kill witches like you? Right at birth. Nasty place.”

The woman who entered the library wore a constant sneer and carried her chin comically high, like she meant to play the part of a queen in some half-baked play. As she plopped into the chair next to us, she kicked a leg over the arm. Her foot waved through the air, mirroring an unheard beat, and her skirt puffed up to reveal her thighs. She seemed a few years older than Kirra. Maybe twenty-five or so, looking back.

 _Kirra’s sister,_ I thought, and found a name: _Kalkora._

You ought to interview her, chronicler. She’d give you a run for your money.

“What are you doing in here anyway? Did Rilka banish you like she banished me? Can’t see why,” Kalkora said. She held a book with one hand, tearing pages out of it with another. Each page she crumpled and flicked onto the floor. “You’re a _fine_ specimen, you are. Better to look at than she is. I’m sure Mister Phaar would be ravenous over you.”

_Rip, flick, rip, flick…_

Kalkora added, “Ew, what is that?” and raised an eyebrow at me. Not once did she stop decimating the book she held.

I said, “Dust.”

“You smell horrible. Not the fun kind of horrible, either. Anyway,” Kalkora said, “I suppose your messed-up nose is an issue, Kirra, but that’s not _congenital._ ”

Kirra looked up from where she’d nuzzled into my head. She did have a crooked nose, from a small accident a few years prior. It didn’t bother her—she was the rare sort who believed in her own beauty—except when other people made a big deal of it.

Her voice flattened. “If they kill witches in Kaamin, why would Mister Phaar like me so much?”

Kalkora: “Probably they’ve changed their minds, knowing our mothers could eradicate their entire country if they so chose. Probably they’ve made witches a part of their little Logical Standard.” _Rip, flick, rip, flick._ “After all, you do know why Mister Phaar is here, right? He’s going to put a dumb baby in Rilka and Kaamin will take over the Sovereignty. Then they’ll kill me before I have any children and pretend it’s an accident.”

Kirra: “That’s not funny to joke about.”

Kalkorra: “What? Can’t have the impure blood _infecting_ the family.”

Craning over, Kirra snatched the book out of Kalkora’s hands. I leapt down to Kirra’s feet, confused, with Taaron’s notebook in my jaws. It felt a little lighter than before, but—well, we’ll get to that later.

“Please don’t be like this today,” Kirra said. She glanced down at the new tome in her lap. “Oh—oh—this is the only copy we have of Rilka’s work...”

Kalkora had an atrocious curtain of blonde hair that fell almost to her hips and, giggling like a madwoman, she twined a strand around her fingers. In the light it shone unnaturally. “Perfect. It’s trash. Medical philosophy my arse.”

(Despite the brightness of her hair, chronicler, Kalkora wasn’t a witch. They were all witches, all Kirra’s sisters, except for Kalkora, who was often sore about it. Sometimes in a justified way, even.)

I peered up and read the cover of the book Kirra held:

**THE LOGICAL STANDARD**  
_BEING FOR THE IMPROVEMENT OF HUMANITY_  
_AND THE SURVIVAL OF SECOND STARFALL_  
4TH ED.  
By Dr. Kaarar Vachian, F.S.  
Trans. Rilka Lattar

That made little sense to me at the time, though if it fills you with dread, it should.

***

Their sisterly banter went on for several hours. Several. Hours. I still remember the, ah, somewhat interesting slivers of it.

Kalkora: “No one is _ever_ grateful for what I do. Who’s been up all night? Me.”

Kirra, flatly: “You look well-rested.”

Kalkora: “Who kicks Rilka’s little death experiments back into the grave? Me and Meat.”

Kirra: “What does that even mean, Kalkora?”

And on and on. I tried to get a closer look at the _Logical Standard_ book, but Kirra kept tapping my paws away.

***

Believe it or not, that wasn’t a yawn. That was a sigh. I’m sighing with the knowledge of what would happen in the weeks to come. It’s all monotonous and depressing, looking back.

***

Anyway—

This familial love didn’t get me closer to helping Taaron. I gave Kirra a nudge and wandered off to see if the other familiars could make sense of all I had just learned. My heart hurt, but Kirra seemed safe, if preoccupied.

Besides me, ten familiars bided their time in the library—one for each witch sister. Most slept through their temporary imprisonment. The two wolves only play-bowed at me when I asked them about Second Starfall, and the bear in the fireplace opened one eye and croaked, _Hello, little brother,_ before lapsing into snores.

I arrived at a shepherd-dog underneath a recliner on the opposite end of the room. She was a large, elderly ball of grey-tipped fur, and she didn’t breathe so much as let out air in dry slaps, like thick fabric against a stone.

“You’ve been trapped,” the dog growled. She watched the portraits on the wall. Scars mottled and sliced her snout and forehead. “You’ve been trapped like me and you will never die.” 

I stepped backward, and yet, chronicler, I didn’t fear her. The dog’s eyes held no disdain, no aggression, no contempt. 

“I am born, I serve,” the dog continued. “They take my pups from me. Then she finds me. She collars me. She won’t let me die.”

The dog stood at her full height. She must have been five times my size. Power flickered along her muscles. A tag on her collar read _Ambrosia._ Even then I thought it was odd for a talking animal to wear a collar—why would a human need to restrain you if they could just speak to you?

“She hopes to breed these humans like dogs,” she continued. “Like cattle. And yet dogs and cattle serve a purpose: what purpose do humans serve that they could be bred to perform _better?_ Are they not the sole free creatures on this planet?” 

Her eyes focused, now, on one of the portraits. It featured a girl-cub who resembled Kirra, but more sullen, and taller, and with blue-black hair. The girl had her arm around a dog who looked like Ambrosia. Neither carried any joy in their features.

Ambrosia said: “We will tear each other’s hearts out until one of us dies, myself and Rilka. Or until Second Starfall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** I like writing about my fears. What's one of my greatest fears, as a chronically ill queer person? Eugenics. And so.
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨


	5. IN WHICH A BEARCAT IS GROUNDED

My line of inquiry about Second Starfall came to a sudden, death-like halt as—at that precise moment—Ironheart the moth fluttered into the library. ɪɴsᴜʙᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ! he crowed, his flight patterns erratic and his voice a horrific little boom. ɪɴsᴜʙᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ!

(What? If I got the answers I craved from Ambrosia right then, chronicler, this story would be blessedly shorter. Do you want the truth or not?)

Anyway: Ambrosia turned away from me, Kalkorra snickered from across the room, and me and Kirra were, as they say, grounded. My witch is the sort whose actions come back to snatch her like a fly-trap every time. But every witch has that luck. The Old Law and all.

***

When you are a princess-equivalent, nineteen is very much _not_ “too old” to be grounded. Trust me.

***

After a maddening climb through the Manor’s halls, Ironheart dumped us into Kirra’s tower, the thirteenth of the Manor’s spires. He babbled on about ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟɪɴᴇ and ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛ like a bad, bad rendition of Taps, touching down on my head and Kirra’s. Then he told us we would remain in Kirra’s chambers until the Grand Ladies called upon us to join them in entertaining Mister Phaar.

The door slammed behind us, and all fell silent.

Kirra said, “You must think me awful, my Dust. I get us in trouble, and I talk so badly about Taaron without her in the room…”

She had been correct: the Manor was loud in that it was heavy on the senses. Irritating, energetic things seemed to happen hourly. It disturbed me as a bearcat, and I flopped by the room’s unlit fireplace. Bitterly I buried my face in the rug—the hide of some hooved, horned, angelic-smelling creature I now know was a unicorn.

There I decided to wallow in soreness. I still couldn’t help Taaron, and with every new piece of information I gathered, I received nothing but a larger headache. Taaron’s notebook under me started to feel like a weight.

Kirra, meanwhile, sunk at her desk—truly a writer’s desk, a pockmarked and scratched-up piece of mahogany lumber, stuffed to the brim with unopened letters and silver pens.

I replied, “No, I don’t. Not awful.”

The few candles scattered about flickered to life. (A living house has its virtues, I suppose.) Kirra’s room, I first noticed, was quite cozy: it wasn’t at all how you would imagine the room of a witch-heir, but rather a frazzled creative’s studio apartment. Shelves upon shelves, books upon books, manuscripts curled up on the floor, a curio bursting with bones and leaves and fossilized forest gunk... 

Sorting through her mail and twirling listlessly around on the stool, Kirra lamented that she didn’t want me to ignore my feelings, or Taaron to ignore hers: only to examine them. To find where they were coming from.

She added, “Taaron is Kaaminan by blood...maybe that’s a part of it, too…”

I missed Taaron still—desperately. I can’t begin to describe the pain that throbbed in my body and, it seemed, my mind. By the stars...

A picture of Kirra and Taaron sat on the fireplace mantle. It looked quite real, realer than any of the portraits back at the Manor library. In the picture they clasped hands next to a fountain, their expressions lit with dual joy.

Kirra tore open an envelope with a blade I would later learn was a unicorn’s horn, sharpened and drained of its venom. “Isn’t that daguerreotype marvelous?—oh, Taaron...my mothers are the Grand Ladies, do you know what that means, Dust? They’ve done and seen so much, and...they would know about Second Starfall.” 

But—I thought, standing up to peer closely at the picture—my mother had known. Maybe (I figured) there were things we animals knew first, even before witches. I tried to form my mouth around the words, but emitted only a cubbish whine. Language still drifted out of my reach like the memory of a dream.

In the daguerreotype, Taaron’s legs seemed a little blurry, as if she had been shaking.

I looked at Kirra helplessly, stupidly.

Second Starfall, Kirra told me, was a very big, very scary thing to consider. But if I wanted to play with ideas, they should have been fun or exciting or happy ones. 

“Not some story where everyone dies at the end,” Kirra finished. She looked at the empty fireplace, her brow furrowed. “And if you want to fix things...if the Old Law wants you to fix things...there are so many places to start, places that are here and now and...oh, how am I going to get you back to Taaron? How am I going to get _me_ back to Taaron? She must be lonely and…”

“I’ll...figure it out,” I managed, and nudged Kirra’s leg. She stroked my back.

For all her flaws, my Kirra truly believed the world would make itself right. She had a narrative, but it was true to her: she never denied herself a single feeling, or a single fact.

“Why don’t you help me answer all this correspondence?” she asked.

***

As we ate an early dinner—which popped through a chute in the wall, prepared by the Manor itself—a knock rattled the door. Leaving behind a fabulous ham chunk, I leapt off Kirra’s canopied bed to see our visitor. I expected Ambrosia.

Alas.

In the archway stood yet another woman who looked like Kirra, but, again, older. If Kalkora had been twenty-five, than _this_ woman was thirty-five or so, with dark, disheveled hair like birds’ feathers. A pipe peered out from her unsmiling mouth. From one of the many pockets in her absurdly long overcoat she pulled out a few folded papers.

Kirra shot her a sympathetic look and handed over the torn-open _Logical Standard._ “I have your book, Rilka. Or parts of it.”

You imagine an eldest sister as matronly and/or graceful, I’m sure. Well: Rilka Lattar smelled like tobacco and walked like an old mariner, and seemed about as grave as one, too, from my recollection. Her bluish-black locks shimmered like a bruise on the world.

“I have yours, Number Twelve,” Rilka replied, sighing. She traded the papers she held to Kirra. “Or parts of it. Think some of it fell out when you jumped that portal. Or the Manor wanted to get back at you. Or both. They landed in my office.” 

She winked unpleasantly. Then she reached down to shake my paw. “A bearcat, are you? Interesting.”

I greeted her and asked about Ambrosia, trying to get an _in,_ so to speak. She didn’t answer.

***

By the way: I hope you like my voices, chronicler, because I’m doing a lot of impressions. Some of these conversations I can recite word for word.

Look. You signed up for this. Let me amuse myself if you won’t even pay me.

***

Ahem—

Kirra said, “Ironheart was atrocious.”

Rilka looked thoughtful as she flipped through the decimated _Logical Standard._ She murmured around her pipe. “Glad I didn’t have him growing up. Although I had the polar bear nanny, and our mothers directly, which some might argue is worse.” 

“You ought to get more copies of your book.”

“The mothers won’t let me,” Rilka said with a shrug. “They’re about as convinced it’s rubbish as Number Nine is. They’ll get on track when they see the results.” 

“How is your visitor?” 

If you could see the grin that inched across Rilka’s face, chronicler, you would have cringed. Her voice carried a level, gentle tenor, but her aspect always seemed...mask-like, I suppose. A copy of a copy. Unsurprising, considering all she would do.

“Quite wish you were there to see him arrive. He is a marvelous man. Brother of the Kaaminan Councillor, Kiraan Phaar—she is sort of like their Grand Lady. And Mister Phaar, he would appreciate you. You prove my hypotheses, more so than the other sisters.”

I tried to pipe in. “Ambrosia? Second Starfall?”

Again Rilka ignored me. “Will you rise early for me tomorrow, Twelve? I’d still like you to meet him. He may just have a fun job for you. And one other thing—I’ll get you off easy with the mothers, if you do me a second favor. May I see the notebook those papers came from?—come now, little bearcat.”

She crossed the room for Taaron’s notebook but I grabbed it, stepping back, uncertain. Even with Kirra’s waves of comfort penetrating my mind, it seemed wrong to allow anyone else to touch the notebook, much less read it.

“I’ll have to ask Taaron.” Kirra gestured for me to sit in her lap, and I acquiesced, clinging to the notebook for dear life. She rubbed my ears. “It’s technically hers, even though we both write in it. I don’t want to assume…”

“Taaron.” Rilka watched the ceiling. “Taaron. Oh—the one who broke into the Manor drunk a few years back and vomited on the dog? The one you’re sleeping with. From Ro Tarra.”

“Kar Tor, actually! But yes. She’s my _kolti._ ”

“Very cute. You two have some data I think Mister Phaar would find fascinating. We have to get wrapped around his finger, you know.” Once more Rilka winked, her face contorting into an unreal layer of skin.

And then I had an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** Behold Rilka, one of the sub-bosses of _Second Starfall_ (if you're cheering for the right folks, anyway). I've been sitting on her for about six months...metaphorically speaking, that is. She's not my type.
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨


	6. IN WHICH A CLOCK SILENTLY TICKS

Immediately— _immediately_ —Kirra vetoed said idea. This after I’d gone through the trouble trying to explain it with the most ridiculous game of charades ever conceived…

Essentially, I meant to head through the True Witchwood to Kar Tor. There I would deliver Taaron’s notebook and spend a few days with her, at least until Rilka convinced the Grand Ladies to free Kirra from her magical house arrest. I could also ask Taaron for further notes etcetera about the unusual migrations she’d seen. Everyone would win.

It all seemed perfectly reasonable to my little mind, even knowing that:

  1. 1) the True Witchwood housed nasties of all sorts, and
  2. 2) Kar Tor was quite a hike away.



But I had to concede defeat on this one in the end. I _was,_ indeed, too young and too small. Objectively. Kirra reminded me of that over and over. Sometimes, chronicler, your needs exceed your current abilities. Much as I wanted to help Taaron, I couldn’t bring myself to argue.

Thankfully, Rilka argued for me.

***

You see, I remember Rilka Lattar believed Kirra—rather, believed that I was both Kirra’s familiar and Taaron’s. She’d never heard of such a thing, but I remember what she said, smoking out of Kirra’s bedroom window that night: “Ah, these kinds of things will get more common. Anomalies. Or what we see as such. Before Second Starfall. That’s why I’d love to see what you and your Taaron have.”

Kirra stroked the fur along my spine. The mention of Second Starfall didn’t alarm her, as you can imagine: even in the shallows of her energy I sensed relative calm. She figured Rilka was talking about a movement. An idea. Not a solid event. Not a _catastrophe._ The memories that appeared in her mind were those of reading footnotes in her tutor’s history books as a child. 

How trivial she believed the whole thing would be.

“I’d rather deliver Dust there myself in a few days,” is what Kirra replied, or something like it. 

Rilka tapped her pipe against her front teeth. Apparently, even with her firstborn wiles (as she put it) she didn’t think she could get Kirra out of punishment for a few days yet. She could only shorten the sentence, so to speak—not commute it entirely.

“And I’d rather not wait, if you don’t mind,” Rilka continued. “All of what you said is true, Twelve. Your bond is new. But Mister Phaar leaves in just a few days. The dog could run your bearcat over there in _less_ than a day. She’s fought worse creatures than unicorns and—” The older witch waved her pipe around, her eyes wide, as if she had suddenly stumbled upon an idea. “You know, I do think that Dust deserves to see his other girl. I can’t imagine how he feels at the moment.”

The look Kirra gave me was one of surprise, then apology. I pressed my nose to her cheek.

***

Ah, but aren’t siblings always guilt-tripping each other, chronicler? It’s one of the oldest stories humanity tells. And yet, as the Kaaminans say, _Tach taa, tach toraa._ What has happened will happen again.

***

It was an unholy pain to be the familiar of two witches separated. Taaron needed everything I had, because I was certain, later, Kirra would need us in the same way. I couldn’t have put words to it at the time, but I imagine parents feel similar when they have to divide their time between a sick child and a healthy one…

I won’t get into it. You know.

Still, guilt simmered over in my belly the next morning. As Kirra kissed me all over, pleading for my safety, I simultaneously considered myself a hero and the worst, most wretched crawling upon the earth.

(I like to think most of us are both. We only can do what we must. Necessary evils and all that.)

With a small nibble on the tip of her nose, I told Kirra I’d be fine. I grabbed the pouch with Taaron’s notebook and, heartbroken and ecstatic, met Ambrosia in the hall.

***

Read any tome on witch-houses and you’ll discover just how maze-like and inscrutable they are on the inside. Annoying, really.

The Manor was standard in that regard. Its halls and rooms and spires drifted off in a thousand directions, some of which were invisible and, to be honest, probably not even within this reality. That meant we needed a portal to leave with any quickness. But—just my luck, hooray, woo-hoo—Ambrosia said the Manor was cross with me and Kirra.

“We must walk instead. You will learn how trapped you are,” said Ambrosia, her tail low and still. 

I thought: _A star falling to earth…_

Very trap-like indeed, wouldn’t you say? On my travels with my mother, somewhere in the Sovereignty’s forests, an elderly hermit shot a wounded stag stuck in his chicken-wire fencing. We saw it from the brush: the deer, wide-eyed, hardly seemed aware of anything but its own fear. It rattled its enmeshed antlers. Then it felt nothing at all.

Mulling over Second Starfall, it seemed to me that we were all that stag. Just _waiting_ for a level of awful we couldn’t even comprehend, essentially. Regardless of whether Starfall was simply an allegory or a real apocalypse—well, no wonder Taaron felt so terrible.

But Ambrosia, irritatingly, said nothing about it as I tumbled behind her silent steps. Ballrooms and larders and studies passed by without end or logic. A hundred thousand marble moths, each carved delicately into the walls and mirror-frames, watched our travels.

After a few minutes, Ambrosia stopped at a beaten mahogany door, flicking her ear against it. Then she tossed her head, and I listened, too.

There was the sound of paper burning, and a growl—a human growl.

***

We heard a lot of crosstalk at that door, which I assumed led to another one of the Manor’s needlessly immense number of studies. I won’t pretend what I’m about to report to you—this dialogue between Rilka Lattar and Kalkora Lattar—is at all objectively accurate. I can recall the smaller conversations better than the longer ones. But this will paint a very helpful landscape, I think.

***

So:

From within, I heard Rilka Lattar say: “There. An eye for an eye. Please do not touch my property again.”

The other voice was that of Kalkora, the strange and destructive force I had met in the library: “I’m not going out at night for you anymore, then.” She sounded as though she’d had the wind knocked out of her.

“You don’t have to do anything for _me._ You have never had such a responsibility, I assure you. But I’m certain Meat will be very pleased to continue his adventures in the Witchwood. He does love corpses, I am told.”

Kalkora: “Don’t you fucking hurt him. Don’t you dare.”

Scuffling. I backed away from the door, nervous, but Ambrosia pressed her paw lightly down on my back. Focus lined her features.

Rilka: “Where is all of this aggression coming from? Number Nine! Your Meat is a subject of the Sovereignty. He is allowed to go where he pleases—he is a citizen with rights, and free will—ah, I see it’s sinking in, now. Good girl, Number Nine, good girl.”

Kalkora swore like I’ve never heard anyone swear since. I won’t recount _those_ words.

Finally, Rilka concluded: “If you would deign to continue helping me in the Witchwood, I need you and the Sovereignty needs you and the world needs you.”

Approaching footsteps, now. Ambrosia scruffed me and leapt down the hall with a surprisingly horse-like grace until we were out of sight of the door. In that time I tried to make sense of what I’d heard, and couldn’t, except that both of Kirra’s sisters seemed rather rude. Yet Kirra loved them—this I knew.

When Ambrosia set me down, she said, “Caught in a web, the two of them. As every other day.”

“They argue?”

“And the mothers will not interfere, because they don’t believe in doing so, and because Kalkora Lattar is a liar in their eyes, and because Rilka—” The seething, gurgling huff that rolled between her teeth was one of bitterness. “We walk.”

***

By the time we reached the relative front-end of the house, I estimate about an hour had passed already. A very _silent_ hour, mind you. I was still processing the last few days, calculating all my experiences, when Ambrosia said, “Familiars are trapped. We must do what our witches order us to do.”

“You don’t want to go,” I replied. The conclusion seemed natural. “Into the Witchwood.”

“But it is my compulsion. Because of Rilka. It has been my compulsion for twenty years or more. I have been old for twenty years or more…you will be old, too, past your natural time.”

We padded along a balcony above the foyer—a typical rich-family room done up in white stone and glass, with a silver dome high above us. On the south wall, like a floral centerpiece, there was a clock...or something like it. A hybrid of a clock and a compass, I’d say. It had both numbers and inscrutable symbols on it, and it measured thirty feet wide or so. Its golden arrows did not move.

“It ticks,” Ambrosia said. “It ticks, but quietly, and so slowly we cannot hear it, little brother. But it goes and goes and there is no stopping it—just like a witch’s familiar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** I love discovering characters I hadn't planned on using too much. Ambrosia was meant to be a footnote, but she's pretty important in this whole shindig. Doggo!
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨


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